Truth be told, the Saharan Desert is not the most gratifying place to spend your Christmas Eve. Initially, this wretched desert expedition was supposed to have been discharged about a few weeks back, but several unforeseen predicaments have impeded our journey.

I had started out with nine of my closest peers, full of anticipation and excitement of the great adventure about to unfurl before us. How naive we were! We simply were not ready for such a demanding expedition. The temperature rose unnervingly. The weaker links among us couldn’t take it and soon succumbed to the incessant desert heat. Soon, there were only three of us left.

Robert, Daniel and I attempted to make sense of where we should be heading using a compass. However, without a map, it was rather unfathomable. They both perished about two days ago due to an extreme heatstroke. After giving them both decent burials, I hesitantly recommenced my journey. I was now left to my own devices to ensure my survival.

I have been meandering aimlessly all around the desert for about two days and I was now irrevocably lost. Every single sand dune looked the same to me; there were no specific landmarks in the Saharan Desert. Nevertheless, I wasn’t quite ready to throw in the towel just yet. I have a family back home and I have no intention on making my wife a widow.

I opted to get some shuteye in order to replenish my plummeting energy levels. I proceeded to set up a rather insubstantial tent using the clothes of my newly deceased friends. I did not sleep well that night. The desert was scorching hot in the morning, but was unbelievably frigid at night.

I then realised that I might not be able to sustain myself much longer. Upon making that revelation, I looked up towards the starry night sky and prayed to God. I prayed for my survival and for my safety. Most importantly, I prayed for my son to not suffer the loss of a father. I prayed and prayed until I wore myself out. Eventually, I was able to get some sleep, feeling an eerie sense of serenity and solitude.

The following morning, I woke up with a lump in my throat. It was Christmas. And then, out of the blue, something outlandish caught my eye. It was a trail of tracks! Upon closer inspection, I deduced that these tracks were indeed human. But how on earth did a trail of footprints survive the sandstorm last night? My heart began palpitating with excitement. Perhaps these tracks would lead me to a village, or some form of civilisation. Anyway, it was better than wandering around in circles.

As I began following the footprints impetuously, I was astonished to discover that the tracks were still as clear as day two hours into my journey. Surely any footprints left in a desert would be obscured by sandstorms in ten minutes flat? These tracks even seemed to be getting more and more defined. But whom did these mysterious footprints belong to?

During my journey, my mind was overcome with worry and regret. What a fool I was to follow a trail of tracks so blindly! My legs were getting increasingly more fatigued and the sun shone its scorching hot rays down on my sunburnt skin mercilessly. Despite all this, I forced my feet to keep moving. The trail of footprints stretched out into the unknown distance yonder, and like a machine, I kept walking, pushing all negative thoughts out of my mind.

About half an hour later, I came across an oasis. Jubilant with relief, I poured the cool water into my mouth without a moment’s delay. The dryness of my throat was getting unequivocally harder to ignore. After gulping down as much water as I could possibly hold, I resumed my journey. Thoroughly revitalised, I pushed myself to walk faster, ignoring the pain in my legs. I longed to see my family again. I certainly was not about to capitulate now. I had a presentiment that my trek would soon come to an end.

Before I knew it, I spotted a village about a kilometre away. The footprints had led me directly to it. Tears of joy streaming down my face, I sprinted towards the village. I arrived at the village fatigued, but very much alive. Before entering the village, I looked back over my shoulder. To my utmost surprise, the footprints had completely disappeared. There was no trace of them. It was indeed a flummoxing mystery.

A few hospitable natives of the village fetched me food and water. One even had a phone. I used this to call for assistance, and for transportation back to my home country. I could hardly wait to be reunited with my family. My wife was probably tearing her hair out with anxiety by now.

As I was taking a breather in a room a native kindly provided me with, a Caucasian female walked into my room. She informed me that she holds a profession as a doctor in this village. She then narrated to me of her own experience of being hopelessly lost in this desert. After wandering around in circles, she was about to concede defeat and take her own life, when abruptly, a trail of footprints materialised by her campsite. On a whim, she decided to follow those tracks. After all, she had absolutely nothing more to lose. Those footprints led her straight to this village. She then proceeded to take up permanent residence here, having developed a predilection to its natives.

I was reverberated with shock, for the exact same thing had happened to me. But from whom did these life-saving tracks come from? I recalled the night of my conscientious praying; the footprints mysteriously appearing the next morning and disappearing as soon as I made it to safety. Overcome with emotion and gratitude, I looked up towards the azure blue sky and uttered a silent note of thanks. The Lord is assuredly up in the Heavens every second of the day, watching us, leading us back onto the right path through ways unimaginable with His infinite wisdom.

It was indeed a Christmas miracle.